Sketch
by Ceville
Summary: The ability to bring drawings to life was amazing – a mutation like no other. Drawing was her weapon. Too bad Melissa Bishop had all the artistic ability of a pogo stick.
1. Chapter 1

**Sketchy Beginnings – An Introduction.**

**Author's Note: **Yes, so, I need to stop starting new stories, and just stick with one to the end. But the plot bunnies demand I write this out. Might as well post it, right?  
>The character and her abilities are from a Wolverine Origins story I had posted a while back, so if you recognise her or her powers, then that's why – I just think she fits in the First Class film, rather than the Origins one.<br>Anyhoo – hope you guys enjoy this.

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><p><strong>J<strong>ane and John Bishop had always known their little girl was special. Though, it was normal for _any _parent to see their little boy or girl as unique and one of a kind, this was something else. Something different. From the moment she'd peered at up them, a newly born infant with seemingly impossibly large green-brown eyes, they'd known. Their baby girl was special.

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><p><strong>W<strong>hen Melissa was four, their suspicions came to become a reality after-all. After having been adamantly –though gently- told that she couldn't have a pet dog, the little girl had sombrely returned to her bedroom.

The married couple, barely into their early-twenties, had looked at each other in panic and confusion upon hearing loud barks and high-pitched screams coming from their daughter's room. Fearing for the safety of their little one, the duo had rushed down the hall and up the carpeted stairs, flinging open Melissa's bedroom door, faced with something they weren't entirely sure how to deal with.

There was a dog in her bedroom. Her bedroom. Her bedroom, on the second floor of their middle-class house. And it wasn't a little dog; it wasn't even a middle-sized dog. It was a gargantuan of a canine, covered in thick shaggy fur, standing at around at least five-feet tall, but with an expression so utterly dopey and befuddled that one couldn't help but fall in love with it.

Melissa was at the behemoth's side, up on her tippy toes, trying to wrap her tiny little arms around the dog's neck – barely succeeding to do so. Her screams, as it turned out, were boisterous cries of joy as the animal licked her face; plastering her with slobber, but pleasing the child beyond measure.

John and Jane had gaped, unable to fathom how the dog – some sort of mixture between a Newfoundland and a _bear_ – had gotten into the girl's room, and they asked her that very question: _"Melissa, dear, where did that dog come from?"_

She'd beamed at her father, frizzy red curls bouncing around as she pointed at a piece of paper with a chubby little finger; crayons of every possible colour scattered around the sheet. John had walked over, while Jane coaxed their daughter away from the dog; fearing she might be harmed, regardless of how pathetically soppy the creature appeared.

Man and wife stood together moments later, staring at the childish, near-illegible drawing in John's shaking hand. It was crudely drawn, and hardly resembled the dog looking up at them adoringly, but to them, it was obviously a dog. A dog their daughter had drawn. A dog now in their daughter's room.

They stared at each other, eyes wide and complexions a pasty, pale white, two pairs of eyes, one a clear blue, the other a deep, dark brown seemingly unable to return to their original size. Their flabbergasted attention was drawn downwards, as Melissa jumped up and down in excitement; grinning a wide, dimpled grin.

"_Can we keep him? I wanna call him Biscuits."_

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><p><strong>W<strong>hen Melissa was eight, John Bishop had received a telephone call at work. Having been told that his daughter was in the principal's office for bad behaviour – something that had never happened before – the man had driven over as quickly as he could, arriving shortly after at the small school the girl attended.

She'd been scolded for misspelling a word, something seemingly insignificant in his mind, but which had blown far out of proportion if he understood what the haughty principal was telling him. Missus Thomas, the principal, had handed him a crinkled piece of lined paper, expression thoroughly disapproving, and he'd examined it with lifted eyebrows.

It was crude, as Melissa's drawings always were – the girl had never been incredibly talented when it came to art – but it was fairly obvious what it was a picture of. A scribble, of a woman's head. Her hair was frizzy and messy, her nose impossibly large and pointy, with thick eyebrows that seemed to connect in the middle and an amusingly curly moustache. Dots adorned the face of this woman, unattractively large lips cradling a horridly crooked pair of buck-teeth.

"_Who is this?" _He'd asked, eyebrows now furrowed as he looked up. A doodle of Miss Cassidy, he'd been informed, the teacher who'd scolded Melissa. His mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusion, thinking back to the origins of their family dog, Biscuits. But as it turned out, nothing of the sort had happened. Miss Cassidy had merely caught Melissa drawing it, and had sent her to the headmistress' office for discipline.

He'd left then, hand-in-hand with his daughter, and a solemn promise to Missus Thomas that she'd be punished for her inappropriate behaviour.

On the car ride back home, John had glanced over at Melissa quickly, unable to stop himself from feeling relief; she was safe, nobody knew about her gift, and as far as they were all concerned she was a normal, if not quiet, little girl.

Five minutes later, they drove past a little ice-cream parlour, and he watched her gaze at it from her window longingly.

Five minutes after that, he peered back over, jaw dropping.

In her hand, Melissa held an ice-cream cone, with at least five scoops, somehow balancing precariously on the cone. In her lap was a messy drawing of that very treat, and he gulped.

"_Sweetie?"_

"_Yes, papa?"_

"_Don't tell your mother."_

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><p><strong>W<strong>hen Melissa was thirteen, she became a big sister. The girl had tiptoed into her mother's hospital room, hand in hand with a kindly nurse, and when she'd peered into her mother's arms, into a mass of blankets, she found a pair of big green-brown eyes peering right back at her. A wide grin had stretched across her face, revealing teeth she hadn't yet properly grown into, and she'd reached out with a small hand, an even tinier one gripping at one of her fingers with surprising strength.

John and Jane Bishop had smiled at one another, the two of them thoroughly exhausted – those Missus Bishop was quite rightly the most tired of the duo – but thoroughly overjoyed with the new addition to their family.

Toby, they named him, and he'd gurgled up at them, with a gummy, toothless smile that had them all grinning right back at him.

Melissa had been guided back out again, after hugging her parents and planting a sloppy kiss on her new sibling's forehead, and had been left in a small corner of the waiting room deigned as children-land.

Complete with blank paper and crayons.

The real surprise had come when John turned into the driveway of their modest, two-story house; only to discover that renovations had been made while they were gone. The renovation of an entire new room on the second floor in fact, which had been completed overnight.

As they gaped, Melissa excitedly leaned forward from her place on the backseat, holding out a piece of paper proudly – a rough drawing of their new house on it in bright red crayon. It was a nursery, she'd explained, a room she'd drawn 'specially' for her new brother.

It'd been uncomfortable to say the least, trying to explain _that one _to the neighbours.

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><p><strong>W<strong>hen Melissa was sixteen, she made her baby brother disappear. It hadn't been intentional of course. She'd been babysitting while her parents took a night off to have dinner at a nice, upscale restaurant in the classy part of town – a rarity in itself. He'd been playing with his toys, making a wooden giraffe figurine kick a poor defenceless dinosaur. She'd been trying to finish her homework, some arithmetic that was making her brain hurt, but had somehow started to doodle in the margins of her work-book instead.

It was a rather pathetic attempt at drawing Toby, and she'd frowned down at the finished product in frustration – no matter how much she practiced, no matter how many classes she took, her artistic skills never improved.

At all.

Growling under her breath, she'd flipped her lead pencil around, harshly erasing the picture. It was seconds later when she realised the noise her brother was making – or rather, the noise he _hadn't _been making.

Toby had disappeared, his toys lying on the ground where he'd been sitting minutes prior. She'd paled, and gawked, and then, as any teenager babysitting would do; Melissa panicked.

She'd raced around the house, Biscuits following loyally, calling for her three year old brother. He wasn't to be found, and she'd flopped back onto the living room sofa, heart racing and hands shaking as she tried to calm herself down.

The teenager had stared down at her workbook, and, feeling some sort of strange instinct overcoming her, she'd quickly re-sketched the picture of Toby; jumping with a small scream when his laughter filled the air almost immediately after she'd removed the tip of her pencil from the page.

Toby was back where he'd originally been, playing with his toys as if nothing had happened, and Biscuits looked from the toddler to his mistress; his dopey expression as befuddled as a dog's expression could be.

She never mentioned the incident to her parents, but at that moment, Melissa knew. She knew she was different from other people. The realisation came with an innate sense of fear; human beings never responded to change or difference. The segregation between people of different skin colour in America predominantly was proof enough of that, and she'd been forced to learn about that in detail at her school – something which was a miracle, considering most girls were expected to learn domestic skills and little else.

She vowed to keep her ability a secret, to protect herself, but above all else, to protect her family.

Melissa Bishop was different, special.

It wouldn't be until nearly over a decade later, that she realised just how special she was.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>All done! Let me know what you think of it in a review, if you don't mind? I love hearing back from people – constructive criticism is welcome, too!


	2. Chapter 2

**Sketch – Chapter One.**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own X-Men, Marvel does. Lucky barstools.

**Author's Note: **Here's 'Chapter One' – the one before this felt like a prologue to me. I hope the setting and background I've provided for Melissa is alright. As much as I enjoy, and understand, the idea of having tortured mutants whose families and friends threw them out for having their mutations, I can't picture that happening to every single one. Surely at least one mutant somewhere had parents who loved them unconditionally?  
>At any rate, fingers crossed you guys like this one. Speaking of you guys – can I say how awesome you all are? So many story alerts, and so many encouraging reviews! Every single one made my day, so thank you!<p>

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><p>"<strong>T<strong>oby, stop giving Biscuits your waffles!" Melissa let out a little groan as her sleep was disturbed, burying her face deeply into the softness and warmth her pillows and blankets had to offer. Jane Bishop was scolding her thirteen year old son for feeding the family dog food that most certainly wasn't meant for canines, and as much as Mel tried to ignore it, the affectionate argument roused her without any hope of her going back to dreamland. Especially since said argument was so loud, she could hear it up in her bedroom.

"Can't choose your family…" She muttered fondly, grinning to herself as she stretched out across the moderately-sized bed; joints popping and cracking, though not uncomfortably nor painfully. She blinked blearily, rubbing at her eyes with nail-bitten fingers, and glanced towards her curtain-covered window; the bright light was thankfully dampened somewhat, but it still made her sensitive eyes sting and her head throb painfully.

She'd never been much of a morning person, but resigning herself to a new day, a Saturday especially, the twenty-six year old threw her patchwork quilt off of her body; hurriedly pulling a thick dressing gown around herself, slipping into a pair of fluffy slippers beside her bed to ward off the morning chill.

Melissa padded sleepily into the small bathroom connected to her room, staring at herself in the mirror after getting the necessities over and done with. She hadn't changed much, her hair was still a frizzy red mass of curls, her green-brown eyes still too large for her face, but all in all, she considered herself lucky – all of her limbs were accounted for, and at least she _had _a face. There was no reason to complain about how her teeth were a little crooked, or how she wished she were a few kilograms lighter; she was alive, she was healthy, and that was all that mattered.

Yawning a rather unladylike yawn, Mel made her way down the carpeted stairs, slippered foot catching on a piece of carpet that stuck up on the corner of the fifth step from the top of the staircase. It'd been that way for years, though her father had sworn he'd get around to fixing it, and she never failed to nearly trip on it every morning.

Scowling over her shoulder at the malevolent material, she turned into the kitchen, another yawn escaping her as she sunk down into a chair across from her brother. Biscuits had leapt to his feet as soon as she entered the room, padding over to place his big head in her lap; tongue lolling slobber all over her lap and tail wagging at a leisurely place as his big brown eyes peered up at her adoringly. "Morning, sweetie." Melissa lifted his head to kiss the top of it, ignoring her brother's '_ewww_' from across the table.

"That's gross, Mel, he's a _dog_. You don't go 'round kissing _dogs_."

She looked at him dryly, smiling gratefully to her mother as she placed a plate of waffles down in front of her. "If I recall, you used to share ice-cream cones with him." She started, waving a fork in his direction. "Lick for me, lick for you, isn't that what you said?" Toby poked his tongue out in reply, and she laughed at him; the teenager's scowl soon dissolving into a boyish grin as well. "Got you, Toby. You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"It's not my fault; your face is just that funny."

"Children," Their mother interrupted, clearing empty plates from the table. "You know the rules, no fighting at the table. No fighting period." The siblings shared a grin, and Melissa winked at her younger brother, placing a waffle-loaded forkful -practically dripping with maple syrup- into her mouth.

Life was good, she decided, as she looked around the kitchen. The only thing wrong with the picture was her father – or the lack of her father. He would have been at work an hour and a half before she'd even woken up, she realised, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall above the doorway. John Bishop had always been a hard worker, even before he'd met his future wife, but his determination had really taken root after the birth of his first child.

He'd been to university, and had graduated with some sort of science degree so far as she knew, but nowadays he worked as an accountant. His days of teaching science to graduate students had ended around her twelfth birthday, she wasn't entirely sure why, but he was happy at present – and that was all that mattered to her. She smiled as she ate, thinking about how lucky she was to have a happy, accepting family – she didn't know what she would have done, had they spurned her for her talents.

She missed her father, that was true enough, but she loved him for his selflessness.

The clock chiming interrupted her thoughts, and Melissa gasped, jumping to her feet in a panic. "I'm late! Oh no, I'm late!" She practically flew from the room, bounding up the stairs –missing the devilish stick-out carpet for once- and into her room; bathrobe and slippers hitting the ground as she flung open her wardrobe doors.

Shirts and skirts, sweaters and pants, they all hit the ground alongside her robe and slippers as she tried to find something to wear – she was supposed to be attending art classes down at the local community centre, another one of her attempts to better her drawing abilities. What use was being able to bring sketches to life if one couldn't sketch in the first place?

Melissa pulled on a pair of dark tights, a knee length skirt being pulled on and zipped up after that – fashionable or no, she just didn't feel comfortable in bold, geometric-printed miniskirts. She stood there for a few seconds later before throwing her hands up in exasperation and pulling on a simple cream blouse, and a red cardigan; the only splash of colour she felt comfortable wearing. The woman stumbled over to her desk, strapping her feet into a pair of plain black mary-janes.

"Where's my sketchbook… Where is it, where is it?" She muttered, rifling through folders of drawings, and sheets of loose drawings she'd scribbled as a child. It was embarrassing to know her skills hadn't improved all that much since then, and a rather depressing reminder of her dismal artistic abilities, but she knew the consequences of throwing any drawings away.

It was like they were a link between her and the… creations that formed as a result of the drawings themselves. If the drawing was damaged, then the creation was damaged; she'd learned that the hard way, after having accidentally thrown out a sketch of the giant kennel she'd doodled for Biscuits just over a decade ago. The kennel had just disappeared; there'd been no warning, no noise, nothing. One minute it'd been there, housing a sound-asleep Biscuits, and then the next Biscuits had dropped to the ground; his kennel nowhere to be found.

So every important sketch was kept inside a small binder, locked away in one of her desk drawers. If anything ever happened to it, she dreaded thinking about what would happen to her happy life. She'd still have her family, but what about Biscuits? What about Toby's bedroom?

She'd drawn so many things for her family, if they disappeared, who knew what could happen?

It made her guilty, she realised, throwing an unused sketchbook into a beaded over-the-shoulder bag; along with some pencils and art supplies. She'd used her gifts to alter reality, hundreds -if not thousands- of times. There had to be some kind of mystic rules against that somewhere – especially since it had been for her own personal gain, and that of her family as well. If there really was such a thing as karma, she had to be setting herself up for tragedy.

Sighing, her panic overtaken with worry, the woman made her way down the steps; poking her head into the living room, smiling at the sight of her little brother fawning over their little black-and-white television, her mother perched daintily on their well-loved cream sofa. "Mother, I'm just heading to the community centre for my lessons."

Jane smiled and stood to hug her daughter tightly. "Alright, dear, but be careful. Try to be home before dark alright, I know how much time you spend trying to get those drawings of yours just right." She leaned back, expression serious, though her eyes twinkled as they always seemed to. "Try not to make anyone disappear, hmm?"

So she'd caved and told her parents about erasing Toby all those years ago, she couldn't help herself. Besides, they hadn't taken it too badly, and it was something of a family joke now anyway

Melissa sighed, as if her mother were asking the world of her. "I'll try, mother." With a grin, she looked down at Toby. "Don't miss me too much, Tobs."

"As if." His wide grin belied his careless words, and he waved. "Be careful, sis. And try to draw something better than a stick figure."

"I'll give you a stick figure." She threatened jokingly, hefting her bag around on her surprisingly bony shoulder. "Well, I've got to head off. Don't worry, mama, I'll be careful." She turned to walk to the door, calling over her shoulder just before walking out the door. "Biscuits, come on, boy!" The dog-bear was on his feet in an instant, giving Jane and Toby the customary slobbery lick of farewell before bounding after his mistress.

Melissa grabbed a red dog leash from the coat hooks on the wall by the door, and clicked it onto the matched leather collar around Biscuits' neck. It wasn't necessarily dangerous in the neighbourhood which her family lived, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and no sane person would dare take on the behemoth at her side; dopey doofus or not.

She looked up at the sky as they walked down the street sidewalk, smiling a small smile as her eyes took in the impossibly blue sky, and the fluffy, wispy clouds that adorned it. The weather was nice for once, that was a change, and maybe this time she could show up to her class without resembling a drowned rat.

"Morning, Melissa dear!" The woman's head lifted, turning to the side, and she smiled at the elderly woman waving at her.

"Good morning, Missus Beckley!" She called back, waving in return.

"Off to your lessons, dear?"

"Of course! I have to improve somehow."

The elderly woman laughed, the sound making Mel grin. "Good luck, Melissa, and be careful!"

"I will, have a nice day!" A sigh escaped her once she was a few metres away from the old woman's front yard. In a neighbourhood where everybody knew everybody, it was hard keeping ordinary secrets, but with a big one like hers, it was even more difficult trying to keep her abilities under wraps.

Everyone was friendly, that much was for sure, and she knew she'd always have her parents, but human beings never responded well to change and difference. Warm, long-time friends could become fierce enemies in an instant, and if anything, Melissa was worried about having to suffer such disdain and distaste from people that had once smiled at her kindly – like Missus Beckley.

Fresh from one war, it seemed they were already on the brink of another. It was bad enough to have memories of one war in a lifetime, even if she'd been safe and sound with her family, it was worse to have more following shortly after. "Ah Biscuits…" She sighed again, scratching his big head lovingly, the dog looking up at her with big, understanding brown eyes. "What a peculiar world we live in. Friendly people, unfriendly people, kind people, unkind people. We're as diverse as can be, and yet we despise anything different. Strange, huh?"

The dog barked, not really understanding his mistress' words, but responding warmly all the same.

"Well, at least you're not judgemental." She laughed, shaking her head. Idly, she wondered whether she was the only person in the world to be special. It was selfish in her mind, assuming so, but she'd never _met _anybody with the same abilities. It made her feel isolated, and almost lonely, regardless of the warm home environment she'd always had. How odd human beings were – they strived to stand out, to be different and unique, but at the same time, the thing most people wanted above all else was to fit in, to belong and be loved.

Two sides of the same coin, with neither holding favour over the other.

It'd be a terrible thing, if either side ever overtook the other. If normal became right, and different became wrong, a principle that already seemed to be rooted into society, what would that mean for her?

Melissa shook her head, frowning, a mirthless laugh escaping her chapped lips moments later. "How cheerful I am today, Biscuits!" She exclaimed, looking down at him then back up again. "There's about as much cheer as a graveyard in me today. What a pessimist I've become!"

Grinning, she began to whistle –though it was faux whistling at best, she'd never really mastered the art of it, instead sucking air inwards to make any sort of remotely musical sound- random little tunes, her step a little bouncier then it'd been before. As she turned another corner, arms moving back and forth as she hummed and whistled, the woman felt a strange prickling sensation run up and down her spine.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she paused, nervously glancing over her shoulder. Frowning, and not seeing anything suspicious, she continued down the path. She was a few streets away from the community centre, and she had Biscuits, so really, being frightened was silly, but she couldn't shake off the feeling of being _watched_.

Moments later, she felt a large hand land on her shoulder.

She screamed.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Who's hand is it? Why are they following her? You'll have to wait and see – as always, I'd love to hear from you in a review, so feel free to leave one. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Sketch – Chapter Two**

**Author's Note: **Wowsers, loads of story alerts, and several wonderful reviews – hoorah~  
>I'd definitely love to hear from more of you though, I adore having feedback on the chapters I post up – it helps me to improve, and fit the things you like and enjoy into the story.<br>I'd also love to hear about which character you guys prefer – Charles or Erik. And why you prefer either one – that'll help me decide the way the story's going to go as well. Speaking of which, the boys make their appearance this chapter~

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><p><strong>M<strong>elissa screamed, stumbling forward to clumsily spin on her heel; chest heaving as she glared at her would-be 'attacker'. Her shoulders slumped, eyebrows drawing together as she scowled at the man standing a few feet away, grinning like an idiot. "Brandon! Why do you always scare the living daylights out of me? Are you _trying _to give me a heart-attack?"

'Brandon' was a strapping young man of twenty-eight years. He was tall, standing a good few inches above six feet, with thick, wavy brown hair and a twinkling pair of chocolate brown eyes – usually accompanied by a pearly white grin that made his tanned skin seem darker than it already was.

He was smart, he was kind, he had an excellent sense of humour, and he was –though she'd never _tell him_- exceedingly good-looking. He was also engaged. To a sweet, petite young woman who lived a few blocks down from Melissa herself.

Marcy Goodman was incredibly short and fine-boned, and standing next to a hulking giant like Brandon only served to make her seem smaller. It was adorable, really. And the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman was as kind as humanly possible, almost _inhumanly _so, never hounding her fiancée about the amount of time he spent with his best friend.

Cue Melissa.

She'd met him at the community centre, just before her eighteenth birthday, though she'd scurried away like a frightened mouse the moment he began walking towards her. Shyness had been her forte during her adolescent years, and to some degree, it was still her forte at the present, but the fact that he'd been _taking _the art classes, something most boys would have been ostracised for, had made her a little less wary of him.

Then he'd eventually cornered her after an art class, offering to help her with her sketches and they'd been best friends ever since.

It was a fact many people in the neighbourhood couldn't understand, but thankfully, Marcy was naturally obliging, and knew the two of them were like siblings. Even if Melissa's mother had mourned the day Brandon proposed to another girl, she'd had it in her head for years that the two of them would someday get married. It was enough to make her shudder; attached to Brandon? Forever? No thank you.

"Sorry, Lissy." He scratched the back of his head; his own beaten leather satchel slung over one arm. "You're just jumpy all the time."

"Am not." She stumbled as Biscuits rushed past her, rubbing himself against Brandon's legs like he was a big cat, rather than a big dog. "Traitor…"

"Aww, he's not a traitor." Brandon crouched down to pet the dog, scratching behind his ears. "He's a big, strong guard doggy, aren't you? Yes you are, yes you are!"

Melissa stared, a disbelieving eyebrow perked as she watched the fully grown, powerfully built man speak to the dog like it was his baby. She gave a gentle tug on the dog's leash, and with a mournful look in Brandon's direction, Biscuits padded back over to sit at her feet, the tip of his tail wagging to and fro on the pavement. "Don't look at me like that." She ordered, a finger pointed down at the dog. She looked up, the finger aimed at her best friend now. "Don't you look at me like that either."

He was notorious for his puppy dog eyes, but they'd long since lost their appeal, and she spun on her heel to continue towards the centre. She heard his footsteps behind her and smiled a small smile; he was like a big puppy dog himself, really, always eager to please everybody. Except her of course. "So did you finish last week's assignment?" He asked, easily keeping up with her smaller strides.

She chewed her lip, giving an uneasy shrug. "Sort of."

"Sort of? How'd you 'sort of' finish an assignment? You know how strict Mister York is about having your work completed, Lissy."

"I know, I know, it's just, I'm not exactly Picasso, you know? And then there's you with your ridiculously amazing artwork, then there's the rest of the class, and then at the very bottom of the skill-appropriate ladder, there's me. I'm as rubbish now as I was ten years ago. I haven't improved at all!"

There was silence, her outburst rendering the comfortable air around them moot, and then a hand was on her head, ruffling her already messy hair. "That's not true, and you know it. You've gotten a lot better, now stop complaining, we're going to be late." She glared at him, and then grinned sheepishly – he might not have been the most tactful of people, but he knew how to cheer her up.

"Like you can talk about complaining – it took you two months to pick a ring while poor Marcy waited. And the whole time you were whining about how none of them were 'right' for her."

"I found one in the end, that's all that matters."

Melissa stopped in her tracks, holding a hand up in disbelief. "_You _found one? I'm sorry, _you _found one?" She glared at him. "You _dragged _me to goodness-knows how many jewellery stores, for _two months_ and in the end, I ended up picking the silly thing!"

"Semantics, oh frizzy-haired one."

Her glare sharpened, her lips twisting into some sort of pout-scowl hybrid, and she stomped ahead of him, tugging poor Biscuits behind her. Her hair was something of a sore spot, and he knew that. She'd give him the cold shoulder for a bit, until he caved, and then she'd make him buy her lunch.

Ah, the beauties of friendship.

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><p><strong>T<strong>he two of them stepped into the fairly sized room their art classes had been held in for over a decade, walking towards the seats they'd claimed years ago. They were seated, and pulling their things from their bags, not wanting to give their melodramatic teacher _any _reason at all to go off the deep end like he did every time they were there.

Mel watched as Brandon pulled his sketchbook out, pouting as he flipped through the pages – it was unfair, really, it was truly unfair that out of _all _the weird talents she could have had, it would be so closely tied into a hobby she was terrible at.

Bringing drawings to life was amazing, but if she never learnt how to draw properly, what good would that do her? She'd gotten by in past years, but that was more dumb luck than anything, and she'd been surprised each time, upon seeing something normal materialise out of thin air, rather than a stick man or scribble monster.

Mister York stood at the front of class, as flamboyantly dressed as always, nose ever stuck up in the air. "Good morning, class." His beady blue eyes peered at them dismissively, like they were insects sitting at his breakfast table – something he no doubt wholeheartedly believed. "This morning I will _try _to assist you in the area of light and angles in the previous assignment. Please take your piece out."

She glanced down at the bound book clutched tightly in her ridiculously small hands, bony wrists cracking quietly as her throat tightened uncomfortably. She hated this part of the classes, York was nothing if brutally honest, and that was at his nicest – he found her attempts at 'art' pathetic and she knew it. The fact she was persevering and trying her best did little to improve his opinion of her.

_I don't want to show him. It's terrible; he'll just make fun of me in front of everybody again. _She glanced at her friend's drawing, eyebrows furrowing and teeth that refused to ever be perfectly white nibbling at her bottom lip. Sighing, she flicked the cover of her sketchbook to the side, flipping through it, past embarrassing attempts at past assignments, to stop at their most recent one.

It was meant to have been a landscape of a place they felt safe.

It'd been an easy decision for her, her house. But she was just as bad at drawing architecture as she was drawing everything else – so it resembled a dog house, more than anything else. Leaning her chin in her hand, she sighed again, thoroughly disheartened.

As a shadow fell upon her, Melissa looked up with wide eyes; feeling her body tense with panic as her muddy-green eyes met the piercing blue pair that Roran York possessed. "Ah, Miss Bishop. Let's see the damage this week, shall we?"

She was doomed.

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><p>"Lissy, Lissy, Lissy, Lissy, Melly, Melly, Melly, Melly, Melly," Melissa let out a quiet groan, clutching at her head as she tried to ignore the man beside her, whispering variations of her name over and over again in an attempt to have her speak to him. He'd been doing it for nearly five minutes straight at present, and it was really beginning to grate at her already sensitive nerves.<p>

She'd been concentrating on her newest sketch, trying to draw Biscuits from memory – all the while wishing she could just go sit outside with the dog, having him there was almost taunting in its cruelty.

"_Lissy!_" Her head snapped to the side, a fearsome glare on her face.

"What?" She shouted, and at that moment, the classroom door opened. Everybody stopped to look as two men entered, looking incredibly out of place amongst the middle-class people sitting at their desks in their expensive outfits.

The shorter of the two, and the friendlier looking of the two, smiled charmingly at Mister York – though she could have sworn his impossibly blue eyes had darted in her direction. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your class, but my colleague and I were wondering if we might borrow one Miss Bishop?" His words were warmly delivered, his upper-class British accent giving them an appealing lilt.

Mister York blinked – half the class blinked – in disbelief, looking from the impeccably dressed men to Melissa in her not-quite-so classy clothes, with her less than model-worthy appearance. His snooty expression was back in an instant, and his stance became –to her disbelief- almost _protective_. "And why would you need to do that, gentlemen?"

"That's between us, I'm afraid. The details are strictly confidential." The taller interjected, his voice smooth but husky all at the same time. His eyes were colder than the other man's, and when they honed in on her, Melissa sunk down lowly in her seat, clutching her sketchbook to her chest like a safety blanket.

"Melissa," Her eyebrows shot up beneath some curls that had escaped, falling in her eyes in a way she had long since become accustomed to – Mister York had _never _used her first name. _Ever_. Not in just over a decade, and now in the face of two strange, though undeniably dapper, men he was like a mother bear; protective, practically bristling. "Do you know these men?"

She opened her mouth to reply in the negative, seeing no point in lying about it, but instead froze.

_Please, give us five minutes, Miss Bishop._ Her eyes darted around the room, trying to pinpoint the owner of the voice, the familiarly accented voice, and came to a stop; meeting a calm, sky-blue gaze.

It wasn't possible. He wasn't the one talking to her, was he?

_I assure you, it is more than possible for me to be talking to you in this manner. _

Her heart raced, fists clenching around the edge of her sketchbook, tightening and tightening until her knuckles were a ghastly white. The two of them could hurt her, especially the taller of the two, he had all the grace of a predatory cat, and he was as intimidating to be close to as one too.

Maybe somebody had finally clued in on the strange luxuries her family had with such an average income? How did she know they weren't here to kidnap her? To do tests on her brain or something?

When she looked at him again, he seemed to be very amused, lips quirking up at the sides and his shoulders shaking slightly – no doubt holding back laughter, something that made her own lips twist into a pouty scowl. She was terrified, and there he was, _laughing _at her!

_Forgive me, I didn't mean to offend you. We aren't here to harm you – you, and your brain, are perfectly safe. We'd just like to talk to you. Five minutes is all I ask, can you give me that?_

She bit at her lip again, and looked from the man speaking to her in her _mind _to his companion. His gaze wasn't anywhere near as warm, but there was a nerve-wracking interest in his eyes, somehow aloof but approachable at the same time.

This entire conversation, a _mental _conversation, that had seemed to last for an eternity as her mind and heart raced with fear and apprehension, but passed in a few minutes, and seconds later she came to a decision. Melissa beamed at Mister York, giving a cheery nod. "I do, sir. Mister-"

_Charles Xavier. And it's Professor, actually._

"Xavier," She finished, ignoring his latter comment childishly, and the widening of his delighted smirk even more so. "And Mister-"

_Erik Lehnsherr. _

"Lehnsherr are here to, to discuss my, uh, my career options. Yes, I sent in an application for help a few months ago. They're late, but better late than never, right?" It might not have been the smoothest delivery, but she'd never been especially skilled at thinking on her feet, and the excuse seemed as good as any. The only who'd know what was wrong, hopefully, would be Brandon, and as she peeked at him from the side, her suspicions were correct; her best friend was examining her through narrowed eyes, and she quickly looked away.

She held her teacher's gaze for a few moments, smile bright and –fingers crossed- convincing. He nodded eventually, gesturing towards them with a hand. "Very well then, be sure to finish this week's assignment, Miss Bishop. I'll see you next week, yes?"

"Of course!" She shoved her things into her bag, clumsily climbing to her feet to push in her chair and nervously walk down the front. She stopped in front of the near-strangers, beaming smile dimming slightly. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

The two of them stepped aside, gesturing towards the door in their own way, and clutching her bag to her chest, Melissa walked outside – all the while wondering what she was getting herself into.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Yayyy, Charles and Erik have made their appearances~  
>I hope they were in character – let me know what you thought in a review. And again – tell me which character you prefer and why, Charles or Erik? Thanks a bunch!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Sketch – Chapter Three**

**Author's Note**: Wow, thirty reviews? And so many story and favourite alerts - you guys are amazing, seriously. It seems that most people favour Charles/Melissa at the moment, I'm a team-Erik fan myself, but I'm wondering if everybody's opinions will stay the same as the story progresses? I hope you'll like it either way~  
>Hopefully the boys are in character here. ;D <p>

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><p><strong>M<strong>elissa walked quietly, wringing her hands together around the strap of her bag, so very aware of the two men walking on either side a few steps behind her. She swallowed, and glanced shyly over each shoulder, head whipping back around as she realised they were watching her. Charles wasn't so bad, though his eyes seemed to see a lot more than one would think, at least they were gentle – his friend's eyes were cold and calculating, seeing more but in a different way from the shorter of the two. It made her feel a little bit unsafe, and that made her want her dog. She wanted Biscuits, and she wanted him now.

"Uh, do you mind if I get my dog? Please?"

Charles, as he'd told her he was called, smiled and nodded. "Of course."

She smiled hesitantly, and turned around a corner, pushing the exit doors open. Barking immediately followed, Biscuits' growling as the two men followed behind his mistress, his fur standing up on end. She often forgot how scary the dog could be, he was so soppy and dopey all of the time, but here he was, snarling and baring fangs that could do a lot of damage.

"Biscuits!" She chided, flushing at the quiet snort from behind her. So his name wasn't _conventional_, she'd been little when she'd named him. "Come here, you silly thing…" She untied the leash from the bike rack outside the building entrance, slipping her hand through the loop at the end and stroking the canine's head with her other. "They're with me, it's okay."

He growled once more, stepping in front of her to sit himself down at her feet, acting as a big, furry barrier between her and the men.

"I'm sorry, he's not usually like this, I'm not sure what's wrong…" Mister Lehnsherr –she didn't feel quite comfortable calling him Erik just yet, he didn't exude friendliness like Charles did- smirked, looking down at the massive canine.

"Smart animal." She looked at him questioningly, but he didn't elaborate, instead meeting his friend's gaze. The two males stared at one another, and she stood there, shuffling around on her feet awkwardly.

_This is… awkward. They're just staring at each other_. _Do I say something, or…?_

"Oh, forgive us." Melissa gave a small shrug, not really sure what to say, more than a little uncomfortable about her mind being such an open book to this charming man and his intimidating friend. "I think you know why we're here, don't you?"

"Well, I know it's not to do with vocation advising, is it?" He chuckled.

"No, I'm afraid not." He looked around, lifting an arm to gesture towards one of the many park-benches splayed across the grass surrounding the community centre. "Would you like to sit down? It might make this more comfortable."

"Sure, I guess." She walked over, tugging at her dog's leash when he refused to move. Mel sat down on one side of the bench, smiling slightly as Biscuits laid his head on her leg comfortingly. The men sat across from her, though Lehnsherr looked thoroughly exasperated with the situation – as if it were something terribly boring. "So you can… You can read minds?"

_That's right_.

She jumped in surprise, the action apparently comical, since the two of them smirked amusedly. It was unsettling, to say the least, hearing someone else's voice in her head. "A little warning would be nice." She grinned uneasily, a little embarrassed by how jumpy she was. Her gaze landed on Lehnsherr, asking the question running through her mind.

He lifted a hand, and her own hands lifted up into the air, the rings around her fingers pulling and tugging. Her jaw fell open, forming a little 'o' as the pressure released, hands landing in her lap. "Erik has an affinity for anything magnetic." Charles said, eyes twinkling teasingly as he glanced at his friend. He leaned forward, elbows perched on the edge of the wooden table; his fingers splayed against each other before him as he looked at her expectantly.

She glanced from one man to the other, blinking.

_Don't be shy, my dear. We know you're like us._

"But what are you? What am I?" She blurted, leaning forward eagerly. "Have you always had your powers? How powerful are they? Have you mastered them?"

At her barrage of questions, Erik –who she felt somewhat comfortable calling by his given name in her mind now that she knew he wasn't going to _kill _her- chuckled, rubbing a hand against his mouth. "Inquisitive, aren't you?" She looked down at her lap embarrassedly, scratching behind her dog's ears. "We're mutants, Miss Bishop."

"Mutants? Like, mutations, as in genetics, right?" Charles looked faintly surprised.

"That's right."

She smiled wryly, shaking her head. "I know, I don't look like a science-y person. My dad used to leave his textbooks around when I was younger, I got bored…" She shrugged, fiddling with the rings around her fingers. "So… Do you know what it is I do?"

"Somewhat. If you wouldn't mind…?"

Melissa looked around, body twisting from side to side slightly. The park area was fairly deserted, and if what they were telling her was true, she felt as if she could trust them. It meant she wasn't alone anymore, and the thought made her grin widely to herself, head dipping down to hide the slightly maniacal expression.

Giving herself a nod, she opened her bag, pulling her sketchbook and a pencil out. "I don't know how exactly it works, it doesn't always work when I want it to, and sometimes it works when I don't want it to, so…" She shrugged again, flipping to a blank page in the middle of the book. "Uh…" Her mind raced, trying to think of something discreet she could try and draw to life.

She smiled, an idea forming in her head, and lifted the sketchbook up so they couldn't see as she scribbled something down; concentrating on the idea in her mind. She heard two gasps, low in pitch, and lowered her book to smile at what was perched on the table inbetween them. A bouncy red ball sat there, shiny and as real as they were.

"Phenomenal…" Charles breathed, reaching outwards with a hand, only to pause. "May I…?" She nodded, grinning at his awe as he picked it up, spinning it in his hands with a grin of his own. "That is... _amazing_."

Erik held his hand out, taking the ball from his friend to examine it himself. Melissa smiled at their reactions, hers had been rather similar, the first time she'd used her powers and _understood_ what they meant. "Is it an illusion?" He asked suddenly, piercing gaze back on her.

She shrunk into her seat, giving a small shake of her head. "No, it's real." She smiled down at Biscuits, completely missing the strangely dark light his eyes took at her words. "Biscuits here was the first thing I drew to life. I was very little, and didn't take well to being told I couldn't have a dog." She shrugged. "So I drew one, then the next thing I knew, he was there."

"And it's lasted all these years?"

"Yes. But only because I kept the original drawing." She tore the page holding the rubber-ball drawing from her book, and then tore that into smaller pieces – the ball disappearing without a trace as soon as damage was done to the paper. "If anything happens to the pages they're on, the objects disappear."

"Interesting…"

"Yeah… It's kind of irritating actually. To keep everything I've drawn _real, _I've had to keep every single drawing. There's only so much space available in my room, you know?" She tensed, realising that might have been a _little _too much information to share with two near strangers – fellow mutants or not. "Uhh, I mean-"

_It's alright, we know what you meant, my dear. _His voice sounded as if he were holding back laughter, even though it was in her head, and she half-pouted, half-scowled in his direction; wanting to erase that amused smile off of his face. "Is that really necessary?"

"You know, that's really rude, reading _all _of my thoughts?" She flicked her sketchbook shut, placing it onto the table with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Melissa wasn't a confrontational person, and she'd always been shy, so her thoughts were her main source of refuge – they always had been – and now this strange man with his impossibly blue eyes –that wouldn't stop their infernal _twinkling_- was flipping through each thought like it were a page in a very open book.

"Forgive me, it's something of a subconscious habit."

"Uh-huh." She looked down at her dog, whom at that moment chose to sneeze, and groaned at the doggy snot down the front of her fairly new cardigan. "Eww…." Something white came into her vision, from the corner of her eye, and she looked up to see Charles holding out a handkerchief. "Thank you, but you'll never get it out. Trust me, I've tried…"

"I assure you, I can afford another hankie." He shook it slightly, and she just barely caught Erik rolling his eyes. Shrugging, deciding if he was perfectly alright ruining a perfectly good handkerchief then so was she, she took it with a quiet 'thank you' and tried to clean herself off – ignoring the dopey look her dog was giving her. "Do you know what breed he is?"

"Uh, not exactly." She examined the hankie once she was done, nose wrinkling, and placed it on the table away from everybody's snot-free hands. "But daddy thinks he's a Newfoundland." She rolled her own eyes, grinning slightly. "Or a bear. I don't know why he came out so big, I know Newfoundlands are normally quite large, but not to this degree."

"Well, he certainly loves you." Her eyebrows furrowed.

"You can read his…?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "No, not quite. He just seems very attached."

"Charles." Erik interjected smoothly, elbow upon the table and hand cupping the side of his face with two long fingers. "We've gotten rather off topic, haven't we?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Charles smiled, the expression slightly sheepish, and then he was the epitome of seriousness; making her gulp nervously. "You have an extraordinary talent, Miss Bishop. But like every skill, it needs to be honed and perfected. That's why we're here."

"To train me?" He nodded. "Where?"

"Somewhere safe, I can assure you – with others whom are also training and learning about their powers."

"But I'm safe here, aren't I?" She shook her head slightly, rubbing at her right temple. "I, uh, I have family here, a job, I can't just up and go." They stared at one another, her feeling rather small and ungrateful for throwing his offer back in his face. It wasn't that she didn't want to go, the idea of learning how to better control her powers was amazing and exciting, but she couldn't leave home. Not now.

Brandon's wedding was just next week, and she was a bridesmaid, she couldn't bail on him and Marcy like that. And what would she tell her parents? They knew about her power, and they were so very understanding about it, but she was very sure they'd be apprehensive about her letting go _anywhere _with two strangers – men at that.

She chewed at her lower lip, a nervous habit she'd never been able to break, and lowered her gaze to the table, not wanting to meet those all-seeing eyes. _It's alright, my dear. I understand completely._

"I'm sorry." She said meekly. "I just, I don't know either of you, not really. And I've things to do here." She couldn't just leave her family, not after everything they'd done for her.

"It's quite alright." He reached into his coat, and she tensed momentarily, fearing a weapon of some sort. He smiled a small smile, pulling his hand back out, a card gripped inbetween his fingers. "Be careful, you might cut yourself on my dangerous weapon."

She flushed, taking the card from him quickly. "Sorry…" The card was nearly entirely blank, save for his first name and a telephone number; anybody who didn't know any better would just assume it was a-

Her mind came to a halt at his bark of laughter, and she glared at him. His reading her thoughts was so troublesome, not to mention embarrassing.

"It's not funny!" She protested, shoving the card into her bag, stubbornly refusing to look at either man – even Erik was smirking, and though she'd known him for a whole ten or so minutes, it seemed quite the feat to amuse him if you were a stranger. If you were anyone, in fact. "That's what it looks like! Besides, I told you to stop doing that!"

"Yes, you did indeed. I apologise. Again." He grinned boyishly, and she knew for all the wisdom and compassion he seemed to possess, he was still a young man. A cheeky young man, judging from what she'd seen so far. "If you ever change your mind, just call that number."

She opened her mouth to reply, but Charles' eyes darted to the side before she did so. She followed his gaze, sighing as she saw one very protective best friend stomping his way over. Biscuits leapt to his feet; tugging at the leash in her hands as he tried to get to the man he seemed to love more than his mistress. Brandon stopped at the end of the bench she was perched upon, usually bright, friendly eyes dark and stormy. "Melissa, come on, we're leaving."

"What?"

"We're leaving, come on." He held a hand out, glaring at the two men sitting across from her.

"Brandon, stop being so rude! What's gotten into you?" His gaze softened as it landed on her, though it was still thoroughly worried.

"Melissa, just come on, please?"

Sighing, she nodded, and stood on her own; placing Biscuits' leash in her friend's hand instead. "I'm sorry, Professor Xavier, Mister Lehnsherr. Really, I just, I have a life here, you know?" She smiled gratefully. "Thank you for your offer though, really."

"Not at all." Charles stood, his friend following seconds later, and she enviously admired the grace Erik seemed to possess as he stretched his lean body into a standing position. "I was our pleasure. If you do change your mind though…?"

_I'll give you a ring._ She thought clearly, smiling at his bright beam. "It was nice meeting the two of you." A hand clamped around her wrist, and she looked at Brandon with wide eyes as he began pulling her away. "Bye!"

"Goodbye, Miss Bishop."

Her sketchbook lay forgotten on the bench-table. 

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong> Doneeee~  
>Were the boys in character? Did I totally ruin it? Why is Brandon so annoyed? Is her sketchbook being left behind important?<br>Let me know what you thought in a review! ;D


	5. Chapter 5

**Sketch – Chapter Four**

**Author's Note: **You guys are awesome – seriously, your reviews made my day so much. I'm really glad that everybody seems to like Melissa, and her power. I know that having somebody able to manipulate reality is borderline Mary-Sue, but I've tried to make her a little more realistic – haha, or as realistic as a story about mutants with superpowers can be!  
>Yep, so a little snippet of CharlesErik POV here. Not much, but just a little bit to let you know what they're thinking~  
>And you find out why Brandon was so aggressive in the last chapter.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>C<strong>harles watched as the young woman was dragged away by her tall, rather annoyed friend. "Well, that went well." He said brightly, chuckling at the expression on Erik's face.

"That girl has more power than she can possibly imagine, and we just let her walk away." He commented. Melissa Bishop didn't look incredibly powerful, she looked the exact opposite, but that very well may have been an aspect of her mutation – to help her blend in and fly under the radar, so to speak.

"It was her decision, Erik. We can't force these people to come with us; it's not our choice to make."

"It should be."

Charles shook his head, knowing that his friend believed that statement wholeheartedly, and that was without delving into his mind. He paused, peering at the table before them, and leaned over to pick up the forgotten sketchbook. "She left this behind." He lifted his head, unable to see the girl and her friend any longer. "I suppose we'd best keep it safe."

"We'd?"

"We'd." Erik smirked at him, and Charles shook his head, mock-exasperation lacing his features.

_There was something strange about her mind. _He spoke into Erik's mind, eyebrows furrowing, all amusement gone from his face and voice.

_Strange how?_

_I'm not entirely sure, something just felt… Strange. Odd. _

_That's helpful. _They exchanged an amused glance, though Charles was more worried than he'd care to admit. Though he was still by no means an expert of the human mind, he was far closer to being one then the average person, and there was definitely something about the mind of Melissa Bishop that set of warning bells within his own. Her thoughts were ordinary enough, filled with the worries of most women her age, though the mutant-related ones were obviously nowhere near ordinary, but it was just… _something_.

He couldn't even put his finger on it.

And that was what worried him, if he were to be completely honest. Something was wrong and he couldn't even figure out what it was.

Curiosity overruled courtesy, and Charles began to flip through the pages. It was ironic, almost cruelly so, that someone with such an extraordinary mutation hadn't been gifted with the ability to bring that mutation to fruition. He knew it frustrated her, from his time in her mind, but she'd also accepted the fact she'd never be an incredible artist, and that was commendable.

_Do you suppose every drawing in here has come to life? _He questioned, glancing at Erik from the sketchbook.

_Wouldn't we have noticed? _Erik took the sketchbook, holding it up with a dry expression. _Wouldn't everybody have noticed scribble monsters terrorising the town? _

"Alright, you have a point there." Charles took the book back, continuing his examination of the sketches. He soon hit blank pages, and closed it, tapping his fingers against the hard-cover. "She may call soon enough; we just need to be patient."

"Patient. I've been patient my entire life, Charles, I'm beginning to tire of being patient." Charles clapped a hand on his friends' back, grinning at him, and the man was pleased to see Erik crack a small smile in response.

"The end product is always worth the wait, my friend." He stared at the book in his hand. "Her power really is quite extraordinary though. The drawings seem to be a focal point, though I'm not entirely sure how she creates things out of thin air."

"She could be incredibly powerful, if taught properly. A valuable asset."

"A valuable _ally_, you mean."

"Of course."

"She'll come to us when she's ready. Until that time," He lifted his wrist to examine the expensive watch perched there snugly. "We have an appointment with another young mutant. Shall we?"

* * *

><p><strong>M<strong>elissa, having been dragged from the park by her now-bruised wrist, scowled at the back of her friend's head as they came to a stop a few blocks away from her house. She dug her heels into the ground, tugging her arm from his hand. When he turned around to find her glaring at him as she nursed her tender wrist, his features softened.

"What is wrong with you?" She all-but-snarled, backing away when he stepped closer. "Do you have any idea how rude that was?"

"I was getting you out of there for your own good."

"How is turning my wrist purple at all good for me? Explain that to me, Brandon. They were perfectly nice people!"

"They weren't nice, Mel."

"How do you know that?"

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "You can't trust people like that."

"Why not? Why can't I trust other people?"

"You just _can't_, alright? Just-just trust me."

"I thought you said I couldn't trust people?" She was being snide, and possibly childish, but so was he, and for no apparent reason too.

"That's different, and you know it, Melissa!"

"How?" He didn't answer and she shook her head angrily. "Who do you think you are, Brandon? Hmm? Best friend or no, you have _no right _to barge in on a _private _conversation I was having with two of my-" She stopped, shaking her head again. "Two people I know. No right!"

"I have every right!"

She scoffed, glaring at him. "What on earth is wrong with you? Why are you being so-so-so _stupid_!"

"_Because you can't go around telling people about your power!" _He yelled, expression thunderous. She gaped at him, slightly frightened at seeing her perpetually-docile friend so angry.

"You-you know about…?" He nodded, and she stepped away, shaking her head. "How long?"

He looked away, sighing. "A few weeks before I talked to you for the first time. I saw you scribbling, and then the next thing I knew there was a sandwich on top of your sketchpad. Poof," He flexed his fingers as he said this. "Like it was magic or something."

"You never said anything… Never told anyone!"

"Of course I didn't, who'd believe me? Melissa Bishop, the girl who can't draw, can bring drawings to life? They would've laughed at me, or worse." He shuffled on his feet then, obviously uncomfortable. "Besides, if they knew about you, it might bring their attention to me, eventually…"

"What? You're a mutant too?"

"Not so loud!" He hissed, reaching for her arm. His hand dropped when she flinched, looking honestly upset at her being frightened of him. "Melly… Look, I'm sorry, okay? Come on, please? Trust me?"

"How can I? You obviously don't trust me." She was beginning to feel teary, and that just made her more upset, because she knew how terrible she looked when she cried – red splotches would appear on her cheeks, her nose would get all runny, and she'd look like she had conjunctivitis in _both _eyes.

"Melly… You know that's not why I did any of that. I was just- I _am just _worried about you. You're like a sister to me." He looked mighty uncomfortable, scratching the back of his neck. "Come on, you know how rubbish I am at this touchy-feely stuff."

They stared at one another, and then she nodded slowly. "Alright. But you'd better not blow it this time, mister. Come on, we'll talk about this at my house."

"What if someone overhears?"

"They already know, so I can't imagine why it'd matter." He followed her, shock blatantly apparent on his face, and a small part of her, the part that was still angry and upset with him, revelled in it. The other part was worried – did his parents know about his gift? Did they approve? She shook her head – those questions would be asked, and they _would be _answered, once they got inside.

* * *

><p>"<strong>S<strong>o you know what I can do," Melissa said, closing her bedroom door behind her – Toby wasn't at school, and the chances of him running in to annoy her were high. Her parents knew nothing would happen between the two young adults, anyway. "What is it you can do?"

"It's not as impressive as what you can do." He sat in her desk chair, while she went around putting things back where they belonged from her bag. "I have super senses."

"Like reflexes and stuff?"

"Not exactly. You know, the five senses? Smell, touch, taste, hear, see?" At her nod, he ran a hand through his hair again. "They're all enhanced. That's how I heard your conversation with those weirdoes in the park."

"They weren't weirdoes, Brandon. They're like us." His jaw dropped open, eyes wide. "Yeah, not so smug now, are you?"

"What could they do?"

"Charles Xavier, the shorter one?" At his nod, she continued, pulling her cardigan off. "Well, he can read minds. Talk to you inside your head too." She paused, midway through hanging the article of clothing in her wardrobe. "It was rather unsettling, actually."

"What about tall, dark and broody?"

"That's Erik Lehnsherr. And he wasn't _broody_." Brandon looked at her sceptically, and she rolled her eyes. "He was just a little bit… aloof, that's all. I'm not entirely sure about his ability; Charles said it was something to do with magnetics and metal… He could control the rings around my fingers, and-" She stopped again, eyebrows furrowed as she took in the wide, cheeky grin on his face. "What? What's that look for?"

"Charles, huh? Known the guy for a whole ten minutes and it's already onto a first name basis." He let out a low whistle. "Guy moves fast."

"Oh, shut up you! It wasn't like that at all." She unbuckled her shoes, pulling them from her feet and placing them on the little shoe rack at the bottom of her wardrobe. "He was very polite, the epitome of gentlemanly manners. An area in which you've never bothered to study, might I add."

"I can be polite! Marcy says I'm a perfect gentleman."

"That's because to Marcy, every man in the world is a gentleman, and every woman a lady. She's too kind to see anybody being any different."

A dreamy look appeared on his face, and she knew he was thinking about his soon-to-be-wife. "Yeah… She's one of a kind."

"You're lucky, Brandon. And she's lucky to have you too, I guess." She stopped, looking at him. "Does Marcy know? About your mutation?" He looked thoroughly offended.

"'Course she does! I wouldn't keep that kinda thing a secret from the woman I love!"

"So you don't love me?" She asked, mock-hurt in her voice as she held a hand to her heart. "I'm heart-broken, Brandon, truly I am." She bit at her lip nervously, looking away from him as she continued. "Do… Do your parents know? About your gift?"

He was silent, and when she looked over, his head was lowered, chin to chest; shoulders slumped and all. She knew immediately that the answer wasn't going to be a positive one. Either they knew and didn't approve, _at all_, or he hadn't told them yet.

"Brandon?" She asked quietly, meekly.

"They don't know, and I want to keep it that way, Melissa. Please."

"Why are you so frightened of them knowing? My parents understand, Marcy understands. Besides, they're your parents! They love you unconditionally."

"Do they?" He asked dully, eyes slightly vacant as he stared at the carpet. "Because I doubt my father would be very understanding. You know how he is."

She nodded slightly, well aware of how judgemental Mister Keyes could be. It had never made sense to her, how someone as kind and sweet as Missus Keyes could ever marry, let alone _fall in love _with someone like Brandon's father. Luckily though, Brandon had taken after his mother personality-wise, though he was a physical carbon copy of his father.

"Promise you won't tell them, Melly, please?" His voice was so desperate, so broken, that she knew she couldn't ever hurt him like that. He knew it as well.

"I won't, I promise." She shrugged. "They already know you're a weirdo anyway."

"Yeah, like you aren't?"

They grinned at one another, and she flopped onto her bed with a sigh. "Excited about next week?"

"Definitely – not nervous though, should I be feeling nervous?"

"I can't really help you there, dear, I've never even had a boyfriend, remember? And Johnny Barts doesn't count, he was a creep." She grinned, shaking her head. "But the nerves'll probably kick in on the morning of the actual wedding."

"Great, cold feet jitters then?" He was speaking brightly, but she knew him well enough to know he was nervous.

"Brandon, there's no reason to be nervous. You love Marcy, don't you?" He smiled softly at the mention of his fiancée.

"More than anything."

"You want to spend the rest of your life with her?"

"Yes."

"Then that's all there is to it. You two are going to get married on Monday, you're going to go on your honeymoon, and you're going to live happily ever after. So stop worrying!"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Since when did you become so wise?"

"I've always been wise."

"Yeah, says the girl who nearly killed herself with a toaster."

"I was five, and you promised you wouldn't bring that up again!"

"I lied."

"I'll tell Marcy you're being mean to me again."

"Don't you dare." She laughed softly, kicking her legs backwards and forward over the side of her bed. "I know that look, that's an I'm-on-my-way-to-a-pity-party look. What's wrong?"

She fidgeted with her rings again, giving a small shrug, but the words flew from her mouth regardless. "Do you think I made the right choice? Staying here?"

"I do."

"Really? I'm beginning to think I should have asked them to wait or something… Being taught how to use my powers properly would be amazing. And Charles –stop looking at me like that- said there were others like us there. Well, not _exactly_ like us, but you know what I meant, people with gifts."

Brandon was silent for a good while, and she fiddled with the rings around her fingers, staring up at her ceiling contemplatively. "I think… I think it's ultimately your choice, Melissa. As long as you're happy, and you're safe, then that's good enough for me." He grinned crookedly. "But you'd better be here for my wedding, or so help me God, I will track you down, and your ears shall know the full, unextended wrath of the wet willy."

Her nose wrinkled at the childish punishment, and she rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that's something to be fearful of for sure."

"Is that a dare?"

"No!" She shook her head quickly, traumatised from earlier renditions during their teens. "No, no, I'm all good. Very fearful of the wet willy, thank you." They stared at each other, and then they were laughing. It was a good sort of laughter, filled with relief and acceptance – now that there weren't any secrets, everything felt lighter, less burdened; it was a nice feeling.

A knock on the door made their laughter die down, and Melissa called for the person to come in. The door opened, and her father stuck his head inside, a wide grin on his cheerful face. John Bishop was a middle-aged man, nearing his mid-fifties, and though you could see his age on his face from the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth, he was still a handsome man. "Afternoon Brandon! I didn't know you were here."

"Afternoon Mister B." Brandon waved cheerfully, fond of the fatherly man.

"Lissy-bear, your mother has dinner ready. Would you two mind setting the table?"

"Not at all!" Brandon leapt to his feet, striding over towards the door jauntily. "Come on, Melly, with any luck, your ma's made lasagna!"

She exchanged an amused look with her father, and then jumped to her feet – though with nowhere near as much grace as her best friend. "Alright, but you're not sitting next to Toby. That's the _last _thing I need."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thereee, another chapter. And a bit of a clue into the GIGANTIC plot twist I plan to pull fairly soon. You're all going to be surprised, hopefully. ;D  
>But yeah, let me know what you thought of the chapter in a review, if you wouldn't mind! I'd love to hear from you all~<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Sketch – Chapter Five**

**Author's Note: **So here it is, the big one. It might be confusing in some places, but eventually it'll make sense, so bear with me, yes? I really hope you guys like it, it feels a tad choppy to me, but that's how I _always _feel about my writing.  
>Your reviews were <em>phenomenal <em>though, truly they were. And so many favourites and alerts, it brightens my day; it really does, finding those messages in my email inbox. Hearing from you all cheers me up. ^_^  
>One reviewer also brought up a <em>very <em>good point, and that's the modern feel this story has. I wanted to apologise about that; really, because though I _tried _to research the era, I'm afraid America in the 60's was a tad too vast for me to cram into my brain. Let's just say the town she lives in is fairly liberal and ahead of their time, shall we? ;D

But yeah - I hope you guys like this one. I'm still not happy with it, especially the scene at the end with Division X, but oh well. I don't want to be too late updating, do I?  
>If anybody reading enjoys beta-reading, I'd adore to have you look over each chapter before I upload it. <p>

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><p>"<strong>P<strong>laces, everybody, places!" The bride's mother was running around the place like a headless chicken, ordering people around, rearranging decorations, and unleashing verbal barrages upon anyone who dared 'ruin her baby girl's big day.' How someone as kind-hearted and soft-spoken as Marcy could have such a domineering mother was beyond Melissa, and she stiffened as the woman began to approach her.

She smoothed out the peach-coloured dress adorning her body, the hem stopping just barely above her knee. It wasn't exactly the style of clothing she was used to, but if Missus Goodman wanted it, then Missus Goodman got it. "Melissa, stop standing there like an imbecile – the bridesmaid are entering now, get a move on!" The young mutant moved to do as she was told, but was halted by the harpy-lady once more. "Oh wait, look at your hair, sit there!"

Melissa was pushed into a chair, and Missus Goodman set about fixing her hair. The would-be artist became alarmed when the older woman began to sniffle, her eyes glassy in the mirror of the dresser she sat before. "Missus Goodman?"

Her words seemed to be a trigger, for moments later she had a middle-aged woman wrapped around her shoulders in a near-death-grip; bawling her eyes out, like a baby. "My little girl, my little girl's getting _m-married_!"

She continued sobbing, and muttering incoherently, though Melissa managed to pick up the gist of it; Marcy was getting married, her mother didn't want that; Marcy was marrying Brandon, her mother _really _didn't want that; Marcy was getting married, hence leaving her family, and her mother _really, really _didn't want that. "Uhh… There, there?" Mel patted the woman's arm, unsure of how to act around the usually composed female.

Missus Goodman straightened, expression calm and blank once more, dabbing at her eyes with all the grace and class as was humanly possible. "Thank you, dear." She fiddled with Mel's hair once more, and after shoving a few more pins into it, pulled her up. "Now, off you go, we can't have you holding up the wedding, can we?"

Too frightened to point out that _she _was the one who'd been holding everything up with her crying and blubbering, Melissa hurriedly did as she was told; jumping onto the end of the line of bridesmaids entering the main hall of the cathedral the wedding was taking place in. She smiled as she met Brandon's gaze, though the one he gave her in return was rife with nervousness. The man behind the organ began to play, just as the doors at the opposite end of the hall began to open, and quiet overtook the church.

The wedding had begun. 

* * *

><p>"<strong>H<strong>ey Professor," Charles lifted his head, staring at Sean as he fiddled around with things in the room. The teenager held a sketchbook in his hands, and the telepath felt a slight sense of panic – if the book held everything Melissa had drawn to life, its destruction would no doubt cause her harm. Sean wasn't exactly the most careful of people. "I never knew you drew."

"I don't, I have no artistic ability whatsoever." He stood, walking over calmly. "It belongs to a friend of mine, and of Erik's, a fellow mutant." He smiled, placing his hands into his pockets. "She has the most exceptional ability, the things she sketches become real. An amazing mutation, one of the most amazing I've seen."

Sean snorted, flipping through the book, a cheeky grin quirking his lips. "That must suck, considering she can't draw for-"

"Yes, well," Charles interrupted, giving the boy a disapproving look. "She can't be blamed. Everybody needs to learn how to master their abilities, why should she be any different?"

"Uh-huh." He squinted, the light in the room apparently inadequate for his scrutiny of the pictures, and edged closer to the fireplace.

"Sean, I'd prefer you stay away from there, that sketchbook is very important." The boy nodded absentmindedly, but continued to move closer anyway. "Sean. Sean, listen to me. _Please _put that down, it is important."

Sean laughed, crouching down as he flipped through the pages, the light from the fire enabling him to see properly now. "Relax, professor, I won't-_crap!_" He'd gotten too close, apparently, a spark flicking out from the flames to burn one of his hands. He stumbled backwards, grip slackening as he cradled his wound. Charles rushed forward, but it was too late.

The sketchbook fell into the fire. 

* * *

><p><strong>M<strong>elissa's eyes snapped open, a scream escaping her lips as she bolted upright; hands braced against her pillow as her chest heaved and her heart raced. She looked around wildly, hair knotted around cheeks, plastered to her forehead with sweat, the room she laid in was not her own; the walls were bare, the embellishments of the room as sparse as could be.

She gulped, throwing the plain grey blankets away from her body; her skin covered in goosebumps as it was exposed to the chilly air. Everything was strange, unfamiliar, and paired with her hazy memories, it was enough to make the woman panic.

"Wha-what…?" She muttered, examining the almost scarily generic, manufactured canvases on the bedroom walls. Everything seemed so… _fake_. So unlived in. Like it didn't really belong to anybody at all. _Where am I?_

She flung the wardrobe doors open, nose wrinkling at the plain, unappealing clothing arranged on clothes hangers. It was nothing like her wardrobe, filled with an eclectic collection of garments, most of them well-loved and worn, but at least they'd been _hers_. Frowning, she shed the plain flannel pajamas, pulling on a pair of high-waisted trousers and an uncomfortably stiff blouse. Flats seemed to be the only footwear available, and they too were hastily pulled on. She didn't bother with her hair, and there didn't seem to even _be _any make-up anywhere, so that was out of the question.

The bedroom door was cautiously opened, a frizzy redhead poking out into a hallway as boring and generic as the other room was. She tiptoed out, but after investigation, there didn't seem to be anyone anywhere in the entire house. And it all had the same exact feel to it. That fake, unlived-in feel. Like a show-home, or an unfinished one at the very least.

Where was everybody? Whose house was she in? There were no family photos, no clues as to who lived there at all. She couldn't remember how she'd gotten there, and her memories were completely scrambled. The last thing she _did _remember was being at the reception of Marcy and Brandon's wedding, just after the toasts had been given and everybody had begun to eat.

Then she was waking up in a bed that didn't belong to her, wearing clothes that didn't belong to her in a house that didn't belong to her.

She ran her hands through her hair, spinning around, and around, and around once more as she looked around the house from the entry hallway. _I'm scared. I'm so scared. _Melissa stopped, biting at her thumbnail nervously. _Okay, calm down, Melly. Panicking won't help you at all._ She took a few deep breaths, nodding to herself every now and then as she gave herself a little pep talk. _Alright. First thing's first, I'd better find out where I am_.

She turned on her heel, twisting the front doorknob to peek outside cautiously. She blinked, surprised to see her own street. "What on earth…?" She gasped, stepping onto the front porch of the house; the front door clicking shut behind her. Striding forward, she stopped before the mailbox, face paling as she read the number. "That's not possible. That's-that's-" A hand covered her mouth as she shook her head, eyes welling up with confused, frightened tears.

_14, _it read_. _Her house number. 

* * *

><p>"<strong>S<strong>ean, no!" Charles cried, lunging for the sketchbook. He watched with wide eyes as it landed in the fire, the flames covering the paper and cardboard completely. Immediately, he was grasping for the fire-poker, trying to retrieve the sketchpad from the fire before too much damage could be done. Eventually, he managed to do so, but by then, a good portion of it was beyond help. "Oh no, no, no, no!"

He carefully flipped through, ignoring the sheepish expression on his students' face, but nearly every page was either completely or partially burnt. He stopped at one, jaw slackening and eyebrows shooting up as intelligent eyes took in the remnants of a crude drawing. Regardless of the almost childish nature of the drawing, it was clear to see what the picture was.

"Dear God…" He breathed, looking up at the teenager standing a few feet away. "Sean, get the others. _Now!_" 

* * *

><p>"<strong>W<strong>hat's going on…? What's going on…?" She paced back and forth across what was apparently her front yard, fingers fisted in her untameable hair, eyes welling up with tears. She wasn't prone to theatrics, having found they brought far too much attention to one's self then was appreciated, but in this situation she felt close to screaming.

That strange and _totally _unfamiliar house, that she was positive she'd _never _before set foot in, had the same number as her own home did – though without the added nursery her house had had on the second floor. It was on the same street, she'd checked the sign. Over, and over, and over again. She recognised the houses next door as well, though the cheeriness of the place she remembered was nowhere to be found.

It was her home, but so very different from the one she remembered.

She groaned, rubbing her temples with her fingers, those digits sliding into her even-wilder-than-usual, tangled mass of hair to grip at it as her mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. Her head ached. It… _hurt_ so very badly, it was making it hard to think at all, let alone try to contemplate what was going on around her.

Melissa shook her head, taking a deep breath, and opened her eyes to glare at the ground. Standing around, blubbering like a baby wasn't going to help her. She looked up and down the street, hands on her hips, and nodded to herself. _I have to try and find the people I know. Mama, Papa, Toby, Brandon, Marcy, even Mister York. They can't have all just disappeared. And where on earth is Biscuits? _

She had to figure out what was going on here, and the only way to do that, was to find someone who could explain it to her. She couldn't be the only person in the entire town, that was impossible, though things seemed fairly impossible at that moment _regardless_. Melissa placed a hand on her chin, the other perched upon her hip as her eyes scanned the street left to right. "Let's see, Brandon lives at number twenty-seven, and Marcy lives at number nineteen. I guess it'll be Marcy first."

With another determined nod, the young woman held her head high, and took off in the direction of the house in which her best friend's fiancée lived.

She was going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another. 

* * *

><p><strong>E<strong>verybody peered at the usually composed telepath as he paced behind his desk, his movements agitated; _perplexed_ to anybody who knew the man. He stopped, only to start again, finally coming to a stop as the questions in everyone's minds, so loudly and unrelentingly thought, became too much for him to bear at once. "You're all wondering why you're here." He spoke up, grasping the back of his chair, peering at them with worried blue eyes. "The reason, is this."

The sketchbook was held up, charred and burnt, and Charles watched Sean's expression twist with embarrassment and shame; the boy's pale skin flushing in a way that was impossible to be overlooked.

Erik's eyes, intelligent and calculating as always, took in the remnants of the sketchbook he'd seen a week prior, his eyebrows drawing together. "Miss Bishop's, I presume?" Charles nodded to his friend, the two of them realising what the other people in the room could not, having received an explanation of the importance those sketches had from the woman herself. "Is it entirely damaged? Every drawing?"

"Nearly every one, nearly entirely." The mind-reader carefully turned the burnt pages, coming to a stop on one that was partially burnt, but still revealed what had been drawn. "I understand now, what was so strange about her mind, Erik. It was _this_. Look at the picture."

Erik stood fluidly, taking long-legged strides towards the desk to carefully take the sketchbook from his friend, examining the picture carefully. He recognised the man drawn there immediately. "This is…?"

"Yes. One Brandon Keyes." He'd found the young man's name in Melissa's head during that one meeting, though he'd never expected to find him drawn within a sketchbook. "She drew him, Erik. Do you know what that means? She _created _a person. A living, breathing, _thinking _person."

"Incredible…" The other man breathed, eyes alight with wonder –and that worrying glint of almost-greed Charles had seen there a few times already- at the extent of the woman's power. His expression was schooled moments later, eyes flicking back to meet the telepath's own. "How can you be certain it isn't just a sketch? She said herself; not every drawing came to life."

"Wait, her drawings _come to life_?" Sean interrupted, eyes almost comically large as they jumped from Erik to Charles, then back again. "Anything she draws? _Anything_?"

Raven's eyes were downcast, her hands wringing together in her lap, and Charles could very easily tell what she was thinking about – without looking into her mind, as it were. She was always so caught up with her appearance; he'd never understood it, especially since appearance could be changed so easily – for her, more than anyone. "What does it mean, Charles?" She asked, looking at him worriedly. "If those drawings bring things to life, what does it mean if they're ruined?"

"Something unfortunate. Something terribly, terribly unfortunate." He shook his head, gesturing towards the book in his friend's hands. "May I?"

"Of course." He took the book, turning a few more pages, and then handed it back. Erik examined it cautiously, his instincts were abuzz, telling him to throw the thing in his hands back into the flames; to let the fire finish what it had started. The page was just as badly scorched as the others, but he could make out a few faces; smiling, happy faces. A man and a woman, middle-aged, with kind eyes and kinder smiles. A little boy with a cheeky grin and a mischievous gaze. And there, to the very side, was a teenage girl.

One who looked very much like Melissa Bishop.

"Her family." He murmured, eyelids slipping shut as realisation dawned upon him. "Oh, dear God…"

"Exactly. We need to get back there, now." Charles looked at Moira; the woman had been silent up until now, something that wasn't terribly common, in all honesty. She looked troubled, and more than a little confused. "I'll explain further on the way, but we must go. Now."

He'd known all along that something had been wrong, that tickling, _itching _feeling at the back of his own mind as he'd scanned her own. He recognised what had been wrong now – it had been her memories. Her memories had felt _wrong_. Like a very poorly stitched wound, some stitches neatly executed, but others sloppy and coming undone.

Her memory had been altered, by she herself, and he wanted to know why.

He only hoped she was alright. 

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: There, the _twist_. Or part one of the _twist_. I think it's pretty much obvious what's going on, and what's happened to poor Melissa. The reason they never saw the pictures prior will be explained - so don't worry about that, kay? The background will also be explained, so I hope you guys approve. Let me know what you thought in a review, yeah?


	7. Chapter 7

**Sketch – Chapter Six.**

**Author's Note**: Yep, so this chapter is basically going to be Melissa remembering the events that led up to her altering reality – they're dreadfully sad, but hopefully not so ridiculously tragic that she steps into Mary-Sue territory.  
>Also – I AM SO SORRY ABOUT HOW LATE THIS IS. My poppy passed away, and work and planning for uni this semester all seemed to fall on me at the same time. So I'm really, REALLY so sorry.<br>BUT - I hope you guys like it. ;) 

* * *

><p><strong>E<strong>verything looked different, she mused, walking down the sidewalk.

But then, at the same time – everything looked exactly the same. The houses were still moderately sized and closely arranged beside one another, though no longer were they brightly, warmly coloured. The lawns were still small and cosy in size, though wild and no longer neatly trimmed. The side-walk pavers were the same width and length, but where she remembered smooth cement the young woman now found cracks and lines. Everything was in the same place she remembered it, but had changed in their appearance. It was maddening, and if she was being entirely honest with herself, incredibly frightening too.

The one thing that had her worrying more than anything was the way in which people looked at her. People she'd known her entire life, whose eyes used to be full of fondness and familiarity as they gazed at her, now looked at her with pity and even fear. They gazed at her from their front lawns, through splits in their front room curtains, and as soon as eye contact was made, off they'd go; zipping away before she could get a proper look at them.

She'd stopped to rub at her face, thinking maybe something had smeared on it, but her hands had come away looking as pale and slightly freckled as they always looked. She'd rubbed at her temples with those pale fingers, a dull ache in her head causing her minor strife. She'd had a headache ever since she'd woken up, but for now she'd endure and ignore it – she needed to find out what was going on, and whining about a sore head wasn't going to help her there.

With a shake of her head, her journey had resumed, though her pace quickened quite a bit. Her eyes lit up as they took in a familiar mailbox, and the bright garish, fire-truck red of the wood was so reassuring she felt the tension from her shoulders and spine melt away. If the mailbox was still painted so unbelievably red, then that had to mean the woman who'd painted it that way was still the same, hadn't it?

Melissa hoped so, and as she knocked on the wooden front door, she supposed it was too late to turn and flee anyway. She stepped away, hands clasped in front of her, rocking to and fro on her feet as she waited for somebody to answer. She heard the lock unclick, and then the door was opening inwards; a pair of familiar, but again unfamiliar blue eyes meeting her own. She grinned, excitement at seeing a familiar face preventing her from taking in the less-than-pleased expression on the other female's face. "Marcy!"

The face she had expected to light up upon seeing her became suspicious and guarded; something that seemed so out of character upon the kind woman's visage. "What are you doing here?"

Melissa faltered, wincing slightly as pain spiked through her head. "I came to visit you, like I always do."

"You never visit me; you haven't visited me in a long time." Marcy gazed at her through narrowed eyes. "I think you should leave."

"Leave? Why would I leave? I'm here to find out what's going on! Marcy, where are my parents?" She tried to shut the door, and Melissa lunged forward to stop her with a shaking hand. "_Please_, Marcy. I just need some answers. Please?"

The young woman glanced behind her into her home, her watery eyes darting back to Melissa before the tiny girl sighed and quickly shuffled forwards; pulling the door shut behind her. "I don't know what you're playing at; honestly, it's a cruel sort of joke – especially towards yourself!" Her confusion must have been plain on her face, for Marcy continued, Mel's head throbbing painfully as she did so. "Melissa, your parents have been dead for the past thirteen years." 

* * *

><p><strong>E<strong>rik's fingers tapped impatiently at the steering wheel they were partially wrapped around, cold blue eyes glancing around calculatingly as he turned their car down another road. "What exactly happened to that girl, Charles?" He asked, the pensive, almost tense silence of their trip finally broken.

"I'm not entirely certain of the details," His friend started, impossibly blue eyes pulling away from the window to glance at those of the driver. "But so far as I've been able to ascertain, something terrible happened to her in the past." Charles looked haunted for a moment, eyes glazing over as he gazed at the dashboard of the car. "I could feel her emotions, coming from those pages, like she'd embedded a part of herself within them. It was… painful. But hidden, I didn't feel it when we first met, though my initial suspicions were correct. Her mind was troubled, but even she didn't know that." He rubbed at his eyes, looking tired, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. "That girl is lost and confused and alone, and I left her there."

"We left her there, Charles. Besides, she's lived there her entire life; I doubt she's going to get lost in the town where she grew up." Erik looked at him dryly, he felt bad for the girl of course, but there were plenty of mutants out there who had it far worse. His friend was far too compassionate for his own good.

"That's just it, I'm not entirely certain that it _is _the town she grew up in. Not anymore." The car was silent, until Charles sighed minutes later. "Her whole world's just come crashing down around her. She's gone to sleep with friends, a family, and a home and woken up with next to nothing. I fear for her, Erik, truly I do."

"Well than, it's a good thing she has us."

"If she remembers us."

Erik's brow furrowed, and he glanced at his friend quickly, eyes darting back to the road seconds later. "If?"

Charles shrugged, scratching at his neck. "If she altered her own memories by re-creating the world where she was most happy, having that world ripped away could mean that the memories she made there have also been ripped away."

"Or vice versa?"

"I'm not sure. But at the same time her mind might not want to remember what happened to make her create something new. The death of her parents, and this Brandon Keyes? A traumatic experience, to say the least. A human being's reaction to extreme trauma is often to forget it even happened. If she has, then making her remember could be dangerous."

Erik's eyes took in the 'welcome' sign signalling their arrival to the girl's hometown. "Now that we're here," He looked at Charles seriously. "Dangerous for whom?" 

* * *

><p>"<strong>D<strong>-dead?" Melissa shook her head, laughing disbelievingly. "If that's a joke, it's in very poor taste, Marcy." But Marcy wasn't laughing, in fact, she looked like she was about to start crying. "Marcy? What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _you_?" Marcy cried, fists clenched at her sides; her tiny mouth set into an angry frown. "Your parents _died_ thirteen years ago."

"They did _not_! My parents are alive; I only just saw them last night." She replayed the memories in her mind, squeezing her eyes shut, as if to shut out the painful throbbing that accompanied every word and sound and movement. "Mama made beef casserole for dinner, Papa was late, but he was home in time for dessert, and I tried to help Toby with his studies. If they're dead, how could all of that have happened last night?

Marcy looked sympathetic now, her gaze pitying and almost condescending. "Melissa, I don't know who you think you were with last night, or what you think you did, but your mother and father were killed in a car accident, thirteen years ago." The other woman squinted slightly. "And who on earth is Toby?"

"My brother! Toby is _my _brother." She winced as another sharp stab of pain shot through her skull.

"You never had a brother, Melissa. You were an only child at the time of the accident."

She felt anger shoot through her veins, her body trembling with it. "No, no, that's impossible! Toby was born thirteen years ago, on October the twenty-sixth. He was slightly underweight, but healthy. He likes waffles with maple syrup, but he hates to have them with ice-cream. He's brilliant with arithmetic, but dreadful with words and spelling. I'm _not_ an only child. I had a brother!"

"They were on their way to the hospital." Marcy continued, as if Mel had never spoken. "Your mother was pregnant, Melissa. She'd gone into labour, and your father had to rush her to the hospital. There was some sort of collision, and-and neither of them survived. I'm sorry, but there was no brother. They've been gone for over a decade."

"That's not possible…" Melissa whispered, hands clutching at her hair, her eyes darting around as her mind struggled to grasp what she was being told. "How could I have seen them yesterday, if they've been gone for thirteen years? Why do I remember them? Why don't I remember any of this happening?"

"I don't know. Maybe you should sit down…?"

"I'm _not _crazy, Marcy." She snarled, sneering angrily. "Don't you dare treat me like I've lost my mind, because I haven't!"

"A-alright, alright, I'm sorry." The timidness she'd so often associated with the mousy woman was rearing its head, but it brought her no comfort. Not like it used to. "Did you bump your head, Melissa? Is that what's happened? You've bumped your head and forgotten, that happens sometimes doesn't it?"

"No, no, I never hit my head." She waved her hand dismissively, though the pain in her head might suggest there was some truth in Marcy's words, and ran a hand through her hair; her fingers catching in a tangle. She ripped it from her the snarly mess, ignoring the jolt of pain that accompanied the action. "I went to sleep, and then I woke up in a room I've never seen before. But it was _my _room, in _my _house, I don't-I don't understand it." Her throat was tightening, her eyes becoming watery with frustration and anxiety. Moments later, her expression brightened. "Wait, what about Brandon?" Marcy looked at her, uncomprehendingly. "Brandon. Brandon Keyes. Ridiculously tall, ridiculously good looking? Loved to tease me about my hair and freckles?" She laughed mirthlessly. "Don't tell me he's dead as well."

Marcy shrugged hesitantly, shaking her head slowly. "I've never heard of anyone by that name."

"How can you not have- he's lived here for as long as I can remember. He's your _fiancée_, for goodness' sake! He worshipped the ground you walked on!"

"Melissa, I've never even had a boyfriend. I think I'd know if I were engaged." The girl held her left hand up, the finger where a glistening diamond had resided now bare. "See?" She lowered her hand, looking at Mel worriedly. "Are you sure you don't want to sit down for a moment? You're beginning to worry me, Mel."

The redhead felt her knees begin to shake, the systematic ache in her head now accompanied by dizziness, and she stumbled over to sink down onto the wrought-iron bench on the Goodman front porch; shoulders slumped and head held in her hands. "Brandon…" She whispered brokenly, eyes stinging as she blinked away tears. "They're all gone. Mama, Papa, Toby, Brandon, even _Biscuits_. What's happening to me?"

Marcy bit at her lip, though Mel couldn't see this, and tiptoed over cautiously; sitting down daintily beside the woman close to having a nervous break-down. She placed a slender hand on Melissa's back, rubbing it comfortingly. "It's alright, Mel, it'll be okay." She said soothingly, and when Mel turned her head to peek at her with teary eyes, she felt like she was looking at _her _Marcy, at the one she used to be able to talk to about anything.

But this wasn't her friend; this was a stranger, in a place she didn't remember.

"Why are you being so nice to me? Didn't you say I was some sort of recluse?" Mel croaked out, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes hurriedly.

Marcy smiled softly, giving a shrug of thin, delicate shoulders. "You weren't always. We used to be very good friends, before the accident, as a matter of fact. You sort of, closed in on yourself after that. I lost a very good friend."

"Right… Sorry."

"Don't be. You've had an extraordinarily hard time, Melissa. Anybody else would react the same way."

"I feel like…like I've fallen through the looking glass. Everything's the same, but completely and utterly different at the same time."

"I'm sorry, Melissa, really I am."

"Not your fault, not that I'd remember if it was." Her words were bitter, filled with the frustration she felt at her situation, and she growled into her hands. "None of this makes any sense! None of it!" She lifted a hand, gnawing at her thumbnail as her mind raced. "I need to know what's happened to me, Marcy." She looked at her friend. "Will you help me?"

Marcy was silent for a few moments, obviously thinking over the proposition, and for a few tense moments, Mel was sure the woman would refuse. To her surprise, a caring smile stretched across Marcy's equally kindly face, and the tiny blonde woman nodded. "I do believe I will." 

* * *

><p>"<strong>S<strong>o, where do we start?" Charles and Erik stood in the community centre car park, the taller of the two glancing around, clearly unimpressed by how rundown the place was. "I'm certain this place wasn't quite so…"

"Unloved."

"I was going to say degenerate. It wasn't this way the first time we were here, Charles."

"It would seem Miss Bishop's influence stretched across this place further than we originally thought." He couldn't help but be impressed, to have had so much power, to alter reality itself… She was incredibly powerful. And in a remarkable amount of trouble. "We have to find her, my friend."

"I'll ask again, where exactly do you propose we start?" Erik gestured around; the place was completely and utterly empty. Nothing at all like the centre they remembered, which had been bustling with life. "Can you read the minds of trees, now?"

"Hardly. Her mind was so haphazardly organised; I could barely get a hold of her, even with Cerebro." He glanced at his watch. "She was searching for answers, concerning her family primarily."

"Meaning?"

"Her family has passed on, but I doubt she'll be so easily persuaded to believe it. She'll need proof." He met his friend's gaze, and watched as 'the penny dropped' so to speak.

"To the cemetery then. Lovely."

* * *

><p><strong>M<strong>elissa stared, her expression blank and utterly devoid of emotion. Marcy stood a few feet behind her, the woman was as uncomfortable as was humanly possible – standing in a place filled with the dead was reason enough for this discomfort, but Melissa only had eyes for the tombstones before her.

_Jane Bishop  
>1918-1949.<br>Beloved mother and daughter.  
><em>

__John Bishop  
><em>1914-1949.<br>_Beloved father and son.__  
><em>_

"I-I don't-" She stopped, chest heaving as she stared and stared and _stared_. She ran a hand down the side of her face, shuddering. "How could this have happened? Why don't I remember?" She whimpered, sharp pain stinging behind her eyes. The headache was getting worse and worse with each passing moment, and with every detail she discovered concerning the past, the pain seemed to increase.

It felt like the ground had been swept out from under her, she felt woozy and dizzy and so very _ill_ as she was faced with a reality she wasn't ready for. "I think, I think I need to sit down." Her words were rushed, spoken so quickly they slurred together as the world began to spin. "I don't feel very well, I don't-"

She could hear her heat beating, the sound drowning out everything else. Her head felt like it was about to split in two, the pressure so unbelievably excruciating for a girl whose worst accident had involved a scraped knee and a few measly stitches.

Her knees began to give out, and the last thing she heard as everything began to go dark, was Marcy's panicked cry of her name.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>There. So, there's part two of the explanation. Melissa will 'remember' next chapter, so everything will be explained properly then. This chapter gave me so much trouble, I swear, so I'd love to hear what you guys thought of it in a review. I LOVE HEARING FROM YOU ALL. 3


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